Sew Far, Sew Good
by Signy1
Summary: Hemming trousers is not intrinsically interesting. Watching someone else hem is less so. Chatting to pass the time isn't just pleasant; it's necessary, especially for quiet types like Hogan and Newkirk. Just a rambling conversation, including such topics as privacy, projectile weaponry, carnivals, costumes, military training procedure, and why man's best friend isn't always a dog.


Newkirk bit off a final thread and looked critically at the jacket. "That should do," he decided. "Can't say I don't wish the Krauts would annex themselves a sense of style, but this will definitely pass muster. You'll look good enough to shoot."

Hogan chuckled. By this time, the joke was so old that it had whiskers; whenever they needed to dress up as Germans, someone was sure to come out with some variation thereof. It was ritual. Comforting as a cup of cocoa. "Thanks. You do good work, Newkirk. Where'd you pick up tailoring, anyhow?"

"The circus, actually," he answered, rethreading his needle and beginning on the trousers. "My nan'd taught me some basic stitchery when I was a nipper—'er eyes weren't what they'd once been, and someone 'ad to make sure Mave wasn't running around in rags—but I learned the finer points under the big top. I was doing a bit of everything—taking tickets, selling peanuts, mucking out the elephants, and what-'ave-you; mending the costumes just fell onto my to-do list, along with anything else nobody wanted to be saddled with."

"Mucking out the _elephants_?" Hogan made a face. "Really?"

Newkirk laughed. "No, sir. Not really. Apart from Freddy the chimp, we were far too small-time for anything much more imposing than Madame Fifi's Trained Poodles. Although I must say that those nasty little buggers could make more enough mess to pass for an elephant. And, to add insult to injury, they couldn't decide which they enjoyed more—biting my ankles or 'umping my leg."

"That's one hell of a choice. Talk about your no win situation!"

"You're telling me. At least the Nazi guard dogs are straightforward about wanting to rip out a bloke's throat. You might end up dead, but it's less bloody _embarrassing_. Take it from me, sir; if you've never 'ad to tell a poodle with bright pink fur, very sharp fangs, and a passionate attraction to your calf that you'd really rather just be friends, you've not missed anything."

"I believe you," said Hogan, mostly solemnly. Laughing at that little mental image, while probably what Newkirk had had in mind, could wait until later. "Were you doing your magic act? When you weren't fending off poodles, that is."

"Not most of the time. I was the assistant to the Amazing Rondini for a while. Knife thrower, and when 'e was sober, which I'll grant you wasn't often, 'e could've pinned a fly to the wall from thirty paces off. That's where I picked it up, you see. Learn from the best whenever you've got the chance, that's what I say. "

Hogan nodded, thinking of the large photograph of Hitler that Newkirk used as a practice target. The picture was well ventilated in strategic locations—eyes, throat, heart, and so forth. There was also a fair sized hole in the wall itself, a few inches below the scowling face. Suffice it to say that if it had been a full-length portrait, the knife would have penetrated an extremely strategic section of the Fuhrer's anatomy. Newkirk's sense of humor was, occasionally, somewhat less than subtle.

"You were the assistant? No offense, but the last time I was at the circus, the knife thrower _I_ saw had an assistant who was curvy and blonde, and her whole costume consisted of about six square inches of sequins. Given the choice between someone like her and a skinny Cockney guy, I know which one I'd rather pay to watch."

Newkirk shrugged ruefully, quirked a meaningful eyebrow. "Yeah. So did old Ron."

This time, as the penny dropped, Hogan couldn't suppress a chortle, and didn't really try all that hard. The image of Frau—no, no, it would have been _Fraulein_ Newkirkberger… dressed in six square inches of sequins… was one to treasure.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh at me, sir; I'll freely admit it wasn't the 'igh point of my stage career. Wasn't more than fourteen or thereabouts. Yellow wig, some greasepaint, a few socks stuffed where they did the most good, and nobody was complaining if old Ron fumbled a throw or two."

Hogan regained his composure, not without some effort. "I imagine they weren't. Wow. No wonder you're so good at playing the little old lady; I didn't know you had such extensive civilian experience with the role."

"It wasn't as extensive as all that, actually. It was less than a year before we 'ad to change the act some. I'd a bit of a growth spurt, you see, wasn't so convincing as a bird, and it wasn't me who was sorry, either."

"I can't blame you," Hogan said. "What did you do after you retired your wig and spangles?"

"Got a bit creative. In the new routine, I'd be this loud, obnoxious bloke in the second row, and I'd 'eckle 'im for a while. Like roll call, eh? After a few minutes of that, Ron would pretend to lose 'is rag, storm straight into the audience, and pull me onstage by the ear. And then it was up against the target board, and 'e'd outline me with knives while I yelped for all I was worth. The crowd loved it."

"Sounds a little nerve-wracking." It sounded more than a _little_ nerve-wracking, as it happened. Allowing someone—someone you'd been irritating past endurance not five minutes before—to throw knives at you? At _fifteen_? It was uncomfortably reminiscent of the way he, himself, played Klink, actually, but after all, that was war…

"That's show biz," Newkirk said, in an uncanny echo of Hogan's thoughts. "I won't say that I didn't feel my 'eart beating a bit faster on the days Ron was rather more lit up than usual. And pinning my 'at to the board while I was still wearing it was fine if I knew it was coming, but seeing as 'ow it was an accident first time around, the stunt made for a few dodgy moments."

"Good grief. Sounds like you needed a Geneva Convention even as a civilian."

"I needed the _job_ , was what. But taking it all in all, it was a good time for me. Nice bunch of people. And I learned a lot. I was sorry to leave, and that's the unvarnished truth." He grinned slyly at Hogan. "It was bloody fantastic preparation for Stalag 13, if nothing else."

Hogan cocked his head. "How so? Aside from learning how to be a nuisance at roll call."

"Ah, that was a natural talent. Was born with _that._ No, other stuff. Living in each other's pockets, first off. I wasn't sharing a bed with a chimpanzee because either of us much liked the idea. We weren't exactly overblessed with personal space in the living tops, so we'd no choice but to learn the fine art of doing without privacy. For another, never quite knowing what was going to 'appen from day to day, except to know that, whatever it was, it wouldn't be what we'd been expecting. Getting stuffed into a dress every once in so often, let's not forget that one. And finding myself doing things that sound flat flipping crazy when I try to explain them, even in the confines of my own 'ead—like standing still while Ron flung knives at me, fifteen minutes after watching 'im down enough gin to float a barge. But that was good practice too, I suppose. If that sort of thing doesn't stiffen a man's spine, nothing will."

"You may be right. Perhaps the RAF should include a stint in the circus during basic training."

"I think that's a ruddy good idea, sir," Newkirk agreed. "It's not a thing that comes easily, but the boys do need to get used to taking orders from clowns."

Hogan blinked, then rolled his eyes. "I guess I kind of walked into that one, didn't I?"

Newkirk smiled angelically, looking innocent as a baby rabbit and twice as harmless. That look always _, always_ , meant trouble. "Took a running start and jumped in with both feet, sir."

"Fair enough. Just so you know, though; you're going to be on laundry duty for the rest of your life."

"Already am, sir. The, er, custard incident…?"

"Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten. Huh. Okay, you can be on KP for the rest of your life, too," Hogan said, straight-faced.

"Remember that business with the German 'elmet and the loose shingle?" Newkirk asked, patently false repentance exuding from him in waves.

"Laundry duty, KP, _and_ garbage detail?"

"The fracas with the Doberman pinscher and the black lace brassiere."

"Do you _like_ being a corporal?"

"As opposed to what, sir?"

Hogan couldn't help himself; he laughed aloud. "All right, all right. You win. I'm running out of punishments to inflict. And in a prison, you know, that really shouldn't have been _possible_."

Newkirk grinned like a fox. "Thank you, sir. But just so _you_ know, as regards clowns, I was actually talking about Klink. Well, Crittendon too, but mostly Klink."

"Oh, okay; that's different, then. I'll call off the firing squad."

"Too kind, sir, you're just too kind. Right; these are about as good as they're going to get. Saville Row it's not, but it's exactly the same as any other SS bastard will 'ave." Newkirk sneered at the finished uniform, with the gaudy silver medals and the coarse, shoddy fabric beneath. If that didn't sum up the Third Reich, he didn't know what did. "This stuff's not worth a tinker's dam, bloody cheap Kraut rubbish. Best be a bit gentle; it'll tear if you look at it cross-eyed."

"Lucky for me I know someone who can sew it back up if it does. Thanks, Newkirk. We'll move tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir. Ready and waiting." He packed away his tools in his sewing basket and stood up, stretched the cramp from his shoulders. "Well, it's gone four. The next shift should be coming on duty soon, so I'd best get back to the cooler in case they take it into their pointy little 'eads to make sure all their chickens are safe in the coop. Good night, sir."

"Good night," Hogan said. "You know, if London had a battalion or two of Newkirks, the war would already be over."

Newkirk deflected the compliment with a wry glance heavenward. "And this is the part where I'm supposed to ask 'In who's favor,' right, Guv?"

"No, there's no need," Hogan said smoothly. "I think we both know the answer to that question, wouldn't you say?"

"Daresay," Newkirk said. "Oh. Almost forgot the most important thing I learned in the circus."

"Oh? What's that?"

Newkirk cocked his head, just the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "When somebody shouts, ''Ey, Rube!' You bloody well _answer_ the call, no matter what."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Okay, I suppose that last bit is a tad obscure, even for me. The term 'Hey, Rube' is circus slang. A distress call, meaning that someone either is or will momentarily be getting his butt kicked and could really use some help from his friends. It was picked up by aircraft carrier radio operators during WWII to alert US fighter pilots that the enemy was attacking, and that their services were required. Hogan would probably have known the phrase; it could therefore have been a neat, if tiny, overlap between the world he'd come from and the one Newkirk had inhabited.

And before anyone asks, no, I don't have the slightest idea what the 'custard incident' might have entailed, nor the one with the helmet and the leaky ceiling, and anyone who even _asks_ about the dog and the lingerie should be ashamed of themselves. Nor do I know on whom the pranks were played, although the phrase 'all and sundry' rather leaps to mind in that regard _. Probably_ not Hogan himself, because overly antagonizing the guy who can order you into unpleasant situations isn't all that smart, but there you are. Use your imagination… and I suppose I should accept at least part of the blame if it takes you places you'd never intended to go.

…I said I'd _accept_ the blame. I didn't say that I'd actually be in any way sorry. Just so we're clear. I mean, I have to _live_ in this brain. You get to close the page.


End file.
